


Defiance

by dvske



Series: Implicit [7]
Category: Transistor (Video Game)
Genre: Drabble, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 21:07:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5105780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dvske/pseuds/dvske
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s never been a fan of being told no.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Defiance

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt filled for [sprinklesfreak](http://www.sprinklesfreak.tumblr.com) @tumblr.

She’s never been a fan of being told “no.” That much holds true for most anyone, really. But the inherent air of authority the word grants, the flat out _dismissal_ condensed into something so simple and sharp and succinct–

Nothing else can wound the Yon-Dale pride quite so.

And she is a _proud_ woman, Farrah, in that quiet way that flows off her in waves. It’s a subtle force you feel at just the sight of her, a bronzed goddess in wispy garb. A free spirit. She walks among the clouds, her footsteps sure, her path certain. Always with her gaze aimed high, a heart brimmed with passion. Passion; that’s her drive. Beauty; it’s her trade. The horizon is her canvas, her very hands the brush. The varying hues of the sky rest at her beck and call, but she makes a dance of it all. Her whims, her being, blended with nature to create something breathtaking. Unity at its finest.

And they have the gall to tell her “no.”

It’s a fairly civil “no,” to be fair, presented as a directive from Administration itself. The usual notification flashes onto the bottom of her visor, a crescent lens she wears whenever she sets to work. The usual salutation, the usual jargon, her usual skimming until she realizes exactly what’s being relayed:

Goldwalk, northwestern division. Restricted for skypainting.

There’s no explanation, just the assumption that she will comply.

Only then does she cast her gaze towards the restricted sector. Neglected, dark. Unoccupied buildings and bare streets, all separated by a hazy curtain shimmering in the encroaching dawn. The sky above, empty.

There’ve been other restrictions, rare as they are, but they come often enough to seed the question in her mind. They come to her with much of the same vagueness, distracting and disrupting her flow before she can even begin. They come when she’s already taken her perch on her apartment veranda, her painter’s gloves slipped snug on her hands and already lit up at the seams as they sync with her visor. They come when she’s already decided on her pallette for the day–ambers and golds, sapphire woven with a glittering purple, uplifting pastels.

A waste, every time.

Why?

She weaves her fingers together, turns her palms outwards as she stretches her arms towards the sky. Towards that empty sector, that blank space already taking on a jade color that seeps out in soft tendrils.

And she muses, a small smile playing on her lips, a familiar itch at her fingertips: Why not?


End file.
